by Unknown
My bike tires skidded to a halt on the ebony, grease-stained parking lot behind the Crystal Owl. A mama hen and her chicks scurried by. The clock had struck eight at night, and Tampa's vibrant sun had just set over the bay with an explosion of creamsicle hues of orange, yellow and white. Sometimes I would ride my bike out to the water’s edge just to bask in the sunset. You won’t find a prettier sunset outside of Tampa.
As I walked into the dimly lit storefront, I noticed an older woman with pewter hair sitting Indian-style on a silk cushion, exchanging whispers with Miss Anne-Marie. The enchanting sounds of Native American flutes tickled my eardrums and set my mind afloat on a sea of tranquility. The shamanic music was accompanied by the earthy scent of sandalwood swirling through the air. I’d always been a fan of the flute.
With a soothing voice like a wind chime my friend said, "Dottie, have a seat right next to Miss Celeste please. We're performing a meditational practice called shamanic humming. Miss Celeste is here to contact her recently passed-on son.” A beaming Miss Celeste just smiled at me. It struck me as odd this woman had just lost her son but was in such a great mood. Miss Anne-Marie motioned for me to sit next to her. For the next fifteen minutes, I sat there in silence as these two middle-aged women purred an unidentifiable song, as if they were trying to communicate with an invisible hummingbird somewhere in the room. No words, just vibrations filled my ears for what seemed like hours when Miss Anne-Marie slowly rose and disappeared into the back of the store. Peering at the entranced silver-haired lady to my right, she hadn’t moved an inch. Her hands perched gently in her lap. A feeling of utter peace enveloped her body. I began to see what I assumed was Miss Celeste's aura all around her, glowing particularly bright from the crown of her head. Focusing on this white light, I felt myself give in to the guttural humming. Miss Anne-Marie returned carrying a very elegant yet weathered wooden tray. A chipped purple teapot and three matching teacups sat on the tray.
Refraining from chatter, she poured a bit of the steaming hot elixir into each cup and handed one to each of us. I gazed at the translucent steam rising from my cup and drew it to my nostrils for a deep whiff of...gross! What was this shit she was trying to feed us? It smelled like a nasty concoction of rotten cilantro and canned tuna fish. Miss Anne-Marie noticed me wincing. She showed me how to shoot the drink, as if she was a sorority girl downing a jaeger bomb. There was no other way to get this cup of vile snot down my throat. If I didn’t shoot it like a shot of whiskey, I was going to ralph all over the beautiful shag carpet and stain her authentic Chinese silk cushions a foul shade of green. I followed her lead, tipped my head back, pinched my nose and let the entire cup of slime slide down my esophagus. It felt like live snails slipping and sliding their way down. It hit my stomach with a gurgle. Generally Miss Anne-Marie's herbal teas were palate pleasers; however, this pot of tea was brewed with a different intention. As I would soon discover, there’d be no relaxing after the tea's dark contents hit my bloodstream. And by the time that happened, I was already back at my apartment with a paint brush in hand and a blank canvas in front of me.
Sitting with crossed legs and the familiar salty smell of my oil paints, I pressed the tip of the paintbrush to the middle of the crisp, white canvas. Instantly, my mind was whisked off to a far-away place, a place that first appeared to be nothing but a blob of colors in the distance. When my vision came into focus, I detected rolling hills of emerald to my left and to my right. There was green all around me, invoking a peaceful sensation inside of me. Suddenly, I heard something approaching from behind. A steady thump thump thump...thump thump thump. It was the sound of a dozen horses’ hooves smacking the ground behind me.
I looked down and a tidal wave of realization crashed over me - I was straddling the back of a satiny alabaster horse. I’d never had a waking vision in my entire life and as nerve-racking as it was, I longed for it to continue. I longed for my paintbrush to capture every moment of this vision on canvas. I knew I was myself in this vision, but I was not in my normal setting. I was in one of those trance-like states you often hear people talk about falling into when they’ve been meditating or fasting for hours on end. The scenery brought to mind pictures I’d seen of Ireland that my grandmother had shown me when I was a little girl. My grandmother visited the Emerald Isle often when she was alive.
With a flowing scarlet dress swathing my body, I leaned over and gently patted the horse's mane, to let him know we were okay or maybe just to comfort myself. The horse bellowed a neigh that filled the air with its baritone noise. It was dark but I could still hear the thumping of hooves behind me, rushing closer and closer. I lurched around to see a sight that nearly frightened me out of my trance, a group of about twenty men on horseback thundering towards me, swords at their sides and rage in their eyes.
My fright-fight-flight mechanism kicked in. My heart rate increased drastically and threatened to burst through my chest wall like a rabid dog from its cage. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my arteries, filling my cells. There was only one thing to do – I dug my bare heels into my horse's flanks, giving him the command to gallop. And he did. The magnificent horse took off in a flash of muscle and speed. The cool wind blasted me in the face, blowing my long hair back, and the horse's hooves moved so fast they never touched the ground. We flew over hills of jade, passed by quiet farmland with flickering lights in the distance, and then came to a grove of twisting, ancient trees. Their branches reaching up to the sky like children reaching up for their mothers. The angry medieval men behind me were shouting and pushing their horses faster and faster, but no matter how hard they tried they couldn’t catch me. My horse was just too fast. A rush of exhilaration flooded my entire body and in a moment of sheer elation, I heard my name called from somewhere in the fog ahead. A deep yet sweet voice broke through the incessant beating of hooves and piqued voices in the air.
Then I saw him. On a tall hill stood another white horse with a man in armor sitting upon it. He motioned for me to follow him. Inside I had the feeling that I already knew him well. I trusted him. I galloped up the hill towards this mysterious man. My heart beat so hard it felt like a drum in my chest. My veins were bulging more than the horse’s veins, as the man came into focus. A very strange, jarring déjà vu moment overwhelmed me. I was stunned by the man’s beauty and stoicism. He resembled an ancient Celtic warrior, and for a brief moment I lost myself in his gaze. I had almost dismissed the fact there was a crowd of enraged men chasing me. I was clueless as to why these men wanted to catch me. All I knew was I had to get away, and this gorgeous man was offering me a way out.
I came up close to get a clearer view of the muscular warrior on horseback. His armor was gleaming in the dim moonlight and covered most of his body. His helmet was strapped onto the saddle, allowing his face and hair to be seen. His jaw was chiseled like a movie star’s, his hair beautiful chocolate brunette that fell in waves down the middle of his back. His eyes were so light blue they almost looked transparent. I’d seen him before, somewhere, though I couldn’t remember where. The angry men behind me had completely faded away as I heard his deep voice say, "This way, please. There's not much time left." His thick hair bounced with each of his horse’s steps. Despite the intensity of the moment, I was in a relaxed state of mind knowing this was all a vision. The mystery man on the other hand was tense and ready to run. A sense of urgency and criticality began to fill me as I drank in this man's emotions and genuine concern. I nudged my horse’s sides and he broke out into another high speed gallop, trying desperately to keep up with the soldier on horseback. Grass kicked up from the horses' hooves and stuck to my hair like little green hitchhikers. I squeezed my thighs together in order to hold onto the animal’s sweaty back. I’d been slipping and sliding all over the place. Sweat dripped down the middle of my chest and onto my stomach. We ran the horses ragged for what seemed like hours and all I could think about was identifying this man, pinpointing how I knew him, and figuring out what this vivid vision was all ab
out. I knew Miss Anne-Marie's herbal tea had worked its magic, and to tell the truth I didn’t mind. But my curiosity would be the death of me. I had to find out who this man was. I knew him somehow, and I needed to know how.
We came to a meadow of golden barley and the mystery man pointed to a place of ruins. Jagged rocks of different shapes and sizes popped out from the ground, forming spiral patterns that danced across the field. A blanket of green moss covered the tops of the giant stones. Vines creeped in and out of the cracks. No one had been there for centuries. We were the first humans the land had seen since prehistory. At least that’s the impression I got.
He spoke again, "We'll be safe there. Quickly!" He pointed towards the spiral of rocks.
Of course I followed him. What else should I have done? This vision felt like it was lasting forever. One of those dreams that makes you forget your real life. My head was swimming and my stomach was churning in anticipation, but I gathered the strength inside of me to follow this man forward into the mist. I didn’t want to lose sight of him.
His foot swung over as he dismounted, and I followed his lead. I stood there silently in this large man’s shadow, staring at him staring at me. His muscles twitched from the rush of it all, my hands shook from the nerves. This miniature movie was playing out perfectly in my mind as my hand rushed to capture it on canvas in real time.
“We’ll let the horses catch their breath,” he said and loosened a leather strap from his shoulder.
Foamy, milky sweat blanketed the horses’ backs and necks, the poor things. I'd never rode a horse before in my life, yet in this vision I rode that horse like a boss. Like I’d been riding for years and years.
This strange, yet familiar man whom I’d so willingly trusted spoke again, his husky voice made me feel weak inside. It reminded me of a moment from one of those cheesy romance novels, where the heroine meets the hero and he makes her swoon by saying three words to her. As much as I hated to admit it, that’s exactly what happened in this vision. His eyes glowed and each word dripped elegantly from his mouth like little drops of honey from a jar. I hung onto everything he said, wishing I could’ve written it all down, but my hand was still painting in reality, so I knew I was capturing this artistically. To what degree though, I had no idea. My physical body was moving on its own accord, completely separate from what was occurring in my head.
After a few minutes of being held in the arms of this mysterious man, I realized it was just the two of us standing in a dimly lit, roofless ruin of a stone building in a foreign land of my subconscious. I knew that at any second the herbal tea's effects would wear off and my vibrant vision would end, so my hand feverishly continued painting and my mind focused solely on this man’s warmth. The curve of his lips, the sparkle in his eyes, the shape of his chest. My metaphoric romance novel's pages blossomed like a spring flower in the form of a painting, as this man embraced me with every ounce of his being. I didn’t fight it, I welcomed it whole-heartedly. Which was the exact opposite of how I’d react to such a scene in reality. An imaginary man can’t hurt you, right? This vision was much better than any dream I’d had before, even better than any experience in real life. So why not let it continue?
The imaginary world around us melted away. I longed to feel his body against mine, to drown in a moment of lusty passion. He pulled back and looked so deeply into my eyes I had the urge to close them. To escape his gaze. When he looked at me, it was like he was trying to see through to my soul. No one gets to see that side of me except me.
He leaned over and further into me as his full lips prepared to meet mine. And then, as quickly as he appeared…he disappeared. The soaked paintbrush dropped to the floor and my body sank backwards against the end of the bed. I fell into the abyss of a deep sleep. The vision was over, the painting was finished, and so was I.
Chapter 7
Isaiah
A string of irritating noises filled my bedroom and broke the night’s silence. The people above me had been leaving food out for the alley cats, which meant that the cats had to climb the fire escapes in order to get to the balcony three floors up. Which also meant they had to pass by my window on their way to breakfast. One of those darling cats was in heat. Couple that lovely sound with the trash truck’s banging on the streets below and you had yourself a bloody New York symphony. I struggled to untangle myself from the blankets. I struggled to rid my ears of the hell on earth arising outside my apartment window. Flashback to the dream I had had that night. It was random but intimate. It was her again, it had to have been. The young woman I’d seen in the church dream had sneaked into my dreams that night, too. Green hills, horses, and a flash of a beautiful woman’s smile clouded my head. I couldn’t shake the image of her no matter how hard I tried. I wondered if she was someone I had met before or if she was just fantasy.
But another thing that wasn’t making sense was the fact that this new artist seemed to be painting the dreams I’d been having. The scene with the church, the casket, and the burly man holding a young woman was a very personal dream, and somehow this woman from Florida had slathered the entire scene onto canvas around the same time. Very strange. Coincidence? Probably. I never truly believed in the supernatural. In my mind, science could explain most of the strange things that happened to people. Ghosts? All psychological rigmarole. Aliens? Simple military experimentation and paranoia. Big Foot? Crazy assholes in furry suits trying to make a buck. But soon I would discover that sometimes things happen for a reason, even when there’s no logical explanation to back it up.
Regardless of my wet dreams it was a work day, and I was obligated to be at the fire station in less than an hour. I hopped out of bed and into the shower, balanced my I Heart the Big Apple mug on the side of the tub. The water beat down on the crown of my head and a thought crossed my mind, what if she paints my dream from last night? What’ll I do then? That was inconceivable, so I brushed the thought away. This coincidental painting mashing up with my dreams will end soon…it has to. Things like this don’t happen in real life. Only in a Shakespearean play or one of those cheesy chick-flicks.
After work, I’d planned to go downtown to check in on my sister. She'd been having some relationship problems with her boyfriend Eddie, and it was my job to ensure he was treating her right. I had threatened to kick his ass more than once – the guy was a sniveling little rat. I love my sister and look up to her in many ways, but I didn’t agree with her choice in men. But let’s face it…she was three years younger and so the maturity level wasn’t quite there yet. However, she’d already accomplished a lot in life, and I was very proud of her. Graduating with her master’s degree in the arts and opening her very own gallery downtown was no easy feat for a young lady in her early twenties. It was nearly impossible. But her undying motivation and creativity catapulted her into a life of success.
We were so different from one another, but the one major thing we’d always had in common was creativity. I always felt I lacked the artistic skill that Suzanne had, but I’ve always had an eye for beautiful things, particularly when it came to art. When we were kids, Suzy and I would have drawing competitions. Winner would get a week off of doing chores. Our babysitter was the judge. One year I made both my bed and my sister’s bed every morning. I swore our Puerto Rican nanny had it out for me. No way was Suzy’s sketch of a house better than my elaborate cartoon drawing of superman. I grew up and realized I was blinded to the truth. Suzy’s sketches of houses looked more like architectural blueprints when compared to my childish stick figure scribbles. Despite my lack of talent, I secretly still drew and painted every great once in a while. When I felt the urge.
The work day went by in a flash, and before I knew it I was standing at the front of Suzanne's art gallery, admiring one of the new window displays. One large painting in a gold frame reminded me of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa in an eccentric, modern sort of way. It featured a young girl staring at the painter, smiling with her mouth and frowning with her eyes. There were splotches of b
lack and white splattered all around her head like some kind of warped polka-dot halo. Weird display of color. But interesting, nonetheless.
I pushed my way through the revolving door and walked inside, my hands shoved in my jean pockets. I noticed Suzy’s manager Vinnie and a couple other employees standing around, trying to appear as though they were working. Suzy was nowhere in sight. One of the youngest employees, a girl in her late teens with burgundy hair in a hot pink mini-skirt, traipsed over and grabbed me by the arm. Honestly the girl looked like she should’ve been at home studying for the SATs rather than working the floor at an expensive art gallery. I had to give it to my sister. Suzy knew exactly who to hire in order to sell to the older male clientele.
"How are you today, Isaiah? Can I help you find something? You know I'm always here to help..." her shiny pink lip gloss smelled like bubblegum. A smell that reminded me of my little girl.
"I'm fine, Whitney. Thanks for asking. I'm just looking for Suzanne, is she in the back?" I slipped my arm out of hers, disgusted with the idea of a girl so young flirting with a guy my age. If Frank had heard my thoughts, he would’ve called me a pussy for sure. Eighteen’s the legal age, brother. I could almost hear him say. Eighteen-year-old girls were just that…girls. Not women yet. And somewhere their fathers were sitting anxiously in a recliner chair, waiting for their babies to get home safely. Worrying about their daughters being out past dark. Worrying their daughters might not make the best decisions. I was going to be one of those fathers one day.
"Oh, yeah. She's in the office. You can go on back, I'll let her know you’re here."
